


it felt good on my lips

by casuallyhuman



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, I just needed to do this okay?, i don't fucking know, i guess 7x01 speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 01:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casuallyhuman/pseuds/casuallyhuman
Summary: “Do you want to talk?”Bellamy looks up from the coffee he’s been staring at for the past—fuck, how long has he been sitting there?—while, prepared to give the same knee-jerk spiel he’s given everyone who’s asked him that question the past two weeks.But it’s not just anyone sitting down beside him. It’s Clarke.





	it felt good on my lips

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a piece of fucking Bellarke trash, and I know it. Just take this. I had to do something.
> 
> And title is from the Tim McGraw song, and no, I don't feel bad it's good leave me alone

“Do you want to talk?”

Bellamy looks up from the coffee he’s been staring at for the past—_fuck, how long has he been sitting there?_—while, prepared to give the same knee-jerk spiel he’s given everyone who’s asked him that question the past two weeks.

(The coffee tastes bitter, cold.)

But it’s not just anyone sitting down beside him. It’s _Clarke_.

She’s looking at him, eyes wide, sad, fully prepared to be sent away like he’s sent everyone away since Octavia had just _disappeared_ in his arms. And he almost does, almost tells her to leave him be, to let him mourn _by himself_, for God’s sake, but when he opens his mouth a sob escapes instead.

She doesn’t hesitate—he loves that about her—she just wraps him in her arms, lets him bury his face in her neck. He can’t help it when he tightens his grip on her, refusing to let go.

He lost his _sister_ two weeks ago, and he hasn’t really been able to say a thing to anyone since.

Clarke puts a hand on the back of his head, threading her fingers in his curls, shushing him gently, and he realizes belatedly that he’s crying, that his tears are wetting her hair and top.

He pulls away and she lets him, but she keeps her hands on his forearms like somehow she _knows_ he needs her there to ground him.

(He does.)

He sniffs a little, avoiding her patient eyes. “I’m not very good at talking right now, apparently.”

“That’s okay,” She says quietly. “Neither am I.”

He knows she’s talking about how raw she still is from losing her mother a little over a month ago. How she didn’t really talk to anyone except Madi for the first week; how even after that she’d only talk to Bellamy, and only about things pertaining to their people’s survival. He’d respected it, then; she needed to mourn, and he knew Clarke. She needed time to process before she could talk, _really_ talk about it.

He gets that now, in a way he wished he’d never have to know.

She squeezes his hand. “Do you wanna get drunk? Like, _really_ drunk?”

He must look incredulous (this is _the_ responsible Clarke Griffin, who’s now a _mom_ on top of everything else) because she huffs a little through her nose. “I’m serious, Bellamy. I could use it—maybe you could too.” 

“Not in—” His voice is gravelly, and he has to cough to clear it. “Not _out there_?”

She knows what he means. _Not in front of everyone_, not where he could break down. He has to be strong for them, she knows that. She shakes her head. “No. Just us.”

He agrees without thinking. “Yeah. Let’s get trashed.”

\--

They go back to her room and Clarke produces a bottle of terrible smelling vodka.

He grabs it. “Where did you get _this_?”

She smiles a little, opening a cabinet and producing a couple of glasses. “Josephine had _quite_ the private stash.”

(The vodka tastes strong, acrid to his tongue.)

She really _did_. They make their way through several shots apiece before they get to a sweet amber liquid—it’s sweeter than bourbon, and neither are quite sure what it is. They drink it, though, and it’s only an hour in that Bellamy can tell Clarke is drunk.

He’s never actually seen Clarke _drunk_ before, not really. He’s seen her tipsy, seen her after a drink or two when she loosens up a little, but never like _this_. 

Drunk Clarke has loose shoulders, light eyes, and a wide smile that appears a tad bit too often. She’s funny, too, without the filter that she normally has, and she has no problems teasing Bellamy when he can’t take a whole shot.

“I’ve already done it _three times_,” She says, grinning. “I’m telling Echo she’s dating a _little girl_.”

He throws back the rest of the shot and chuckles. “Jokes’ on you. We’re not even _dating_ anymore.”

(Yeah, maybe he’s a little farther gone than he thought.)

Clarke’s eyes widen at that and she sits on the bed, tugging his arm until he follows her lead. “What happened, Bellamy? I thought you really liked each other!”

He rubs the back of his neck. Even drunk, he knows better than to tell her the truth: that Echo had dumped him before Octavia disappeared. Had said that she couldn’t be second to Clarke; that _everyone_ knew he was in love with her, that she couldn’t do it any more. He hadn’t even protested at the time. She’d been right.

He shrugs. “It was for the best. ‘s fine, really.”

She falls silent for a moment, then she rests her head on his shoulder. “You should’ve told me.”

He huffs out a laugh. “A break-up didn’t seem that important at the time. There was a lot going on.”

“Yeah.”

She rubs her forehead against his shirtsleeve sleepily. “I just want you to be _happy_, Bellamy. And I thought you _were_, with her, finally. You deserve that, you know.”

His heart surges fondly at her words, and he can’t help but wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her closer to him. “So do you.”

She laughs, the sound muffled by his shirt. “I don’t know about _that_.” 

“You do,” He insists, because Clarke has been the martyr, the hero for years now, saving their asses again and again, making impossible choices and then being blamed for consequences that were impossible to avoid. “You’re always losing everything, Clarke, because you keep _saving_ us.”

She _hmms_ into his side. “Well, not _everything_. I have Madi.”

“That’s right,” He says, squeezing her arm. “And she loves you.”

She pulls back, then, enough to look him in the eye. “And I have _you_.” She says quietly.

His heart skips a beat at that admission, but he manages a shaky smile. “Sure do, princess. The heart and the head,” He says, and it sounds like a vow.

“The heart and the head.” She promises back.

\--

Bellamy doesn’t it make it back to his room that night.

They got drunk enough that he doesn’t even really consider it, that they both fall asleep late in the night after talking for hours, fully clothed.

He’s the first to wake up the next morning, and the first thing he notices is a heavy warmth draped across his front, soft blonde hairs tickling his nose. He blows a little bit to get them out of his mouth, but doesn’t bother moving otherwise. She’ll wake when she wakes; the two of them are past awkward, anyway, passed _that_ a couple genocides ago.

So he stills, closes his eyes, lets himself enjoy the feeling of her arm over his, her heart beating so close to his, her leg slung over him like she was trying to keep him against her all night long.

He’s not sure how long it takes. Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour before she stirs, breath ghosting his neck. “Bellamy?” She murmurs as she sits up.

His hand falls from her back to the bed. “Morning.” He says.

She winces when a patch of sunlight catches her eyes, and he knows she’s starting to feel the effects of the hangover he’s already had time to acquaint himself with.

She squints. “_God_, my head hurts.”

A dry chuckle escapes him, and he reaches to the table by her bed, where she’d somehow had the forethought to place two glasses of water. “Here,” He says, giving her one.

Clarke wraps both hands around it, drinks the whole thing, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t admiring her soft skin then, dappled in the morning sunlight.

She reaches over him to set it back down, then settles back down beside him in the crook of his arm. “I don’t really want to go outside.” She confesses in a whisper.

“Then don’t,” He says. “I don’t think the camp will erupt in chaos in a _day_ just because we aren’t there.”

The logic is hard to argue with, and he’s proud of himself for it.

They fall quiet, then, and he savors the moment, rubs his thumb over the softness of her forearm. He’d missed Clarke, for so long, and he can’t help but be grateful now for every one of these quiet moments they steal, when they can be at peace and not worry about the survival of the human race.

He feels her head shift, and when he glances down she’s looking up at him, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“What is it?”

She hesitates, swallows before she speaks, voice small. “Why did you and Echo break up?”

And isn’t _that_ just the million dollar question?

But she’s asking, and there aren’t _that_ many reasons you ask a question like that out of context. And maybe, just _maybe_—

“Don’t ask if you don’t want to know,” He says, voice warning, and if that isn’t fair then he doesn’t know what is.

She brings a hand up to rest on his chest. “I asked, didn’t I?”

_Fuck_.

He silently brings his other hand to cover his, and he doesn’t break their stare. Couldn’t now, he thinks, even if there were screams outside, even if there was _another_ apocalypse, he couldn’t break this moment. He brings her hand to his mouth and kisses it, gently.

“Because of _you_, Clarke.”

She gasps a little, eyes shining as they stare into his, and it isn’t a moment later that they’re darting down to his mouth.

He doesn’t give her time for hesitation: he moves the hand from her side to tangle in her hair and pulls her down to meet him.

(Her lips taste like home.)


End file.
